


Things I was proud of but never finished

by mattysones



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattysones/pseuds/mattysones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matty's incomplete porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1817

1817

He was watching his own movements, gestures, footsteps chasing footsteps, sight behind himself and the person he was following. He could only see the back of their heads, and when he came back to himself he was struck with the severity of the situation. He had not expected America to rise to his challenge.

That had been very foolish of England, and he wouldn't make another mistake tonight. He trained his vision to America's shoulders, shoulders that weren't quite done growing, clad by a jacket that never suited him and never would. Those shoulders were meant for heavy labor, sweat and sun. England wondered what his own shoulders would look like to America.

No, no. He couldn't think about this. He was detached, impartial. He didn't care what happened afterward. America was only a colony (ex-colony) and England would treat America the way he treated any other colony.

England was teaching America a lesson. That's right. A cold gaze, pressed lips and matching stare is what America would see when he opened the bedroom door and stepped aside. England looked from America to the entrance and walked in without a second glance to the younger would-be nation.

England wasn't intimidated in the slightest. He couldn't be, not by cockiness, not by the four-post bed covered in patchwork quilts, the bed engraved with carvings England couldn't quite see.

Except America wasn't being cocky now, not anymore. England could feel the nervous energy behind him and the hesitant step on a hardwood floor. The click of the door. England looked over his shoulder to see America still holding the door handle, also staring at the bed. America's own bed. America had four guest rooms and had chosen his own bedroom. England looked away.

"I'm filthy."

America jolted, "Pardon?"

England didn't look back, only stared at the dark bed and its cut curves, "I've been traveling all day and need a bath." he turned to look at the slightly open mouth, the incongruous stare not quite meeting his own detached one, "Do you have a servant who draws them for you?"

America pressed his lips together and settled into a glare. That was comfortable, that was alright. "No. I do them myself."

England let the silence draw out before he interrupted it, "Do you mind? I don't know where your well is."

America huffed but jerked the door he was clinging to open. He was ready to bolt. England should have known.

"America."

America froze.

"You will join me."

For a second England knew what America saw. A stocky older man with a stone face and bright green glare. His mouth was frowning where it used to smile for him so often, so often. This man was giving America the business side of things. They were cutting a deal. England could still be told no.

America responded by ducking out the door and going the direction in the hall that led to where England knew perfectly where the well was.

They were cutting a deal. A cold deal. A detached deal.

... this isn't what their bosses wanted.

Today was supposed to be ... a peace offering. An olive branch in the form of tea.

"This is a chance to be civil with him." England's boss had said. "Please show him that we have no ill feelings."

Except, England did have ill feelings. Sick feelings. He had told his boss so. His family, his charge, his child, his little brother had betrayed him, and England knew America wasn't so daft as to think everything would be okay afterward. England resented their bosses for trying. He understood them for trying. It was too much to see America's face so soon ...

America still looked so young.

There was no drop in England's stomach at the thought (Liar). No jump of nerves. No pang of guilt. No, that jolt was something else. England didn't know what it was so he ignored it (Liar). Instead of thinking, England searched for a terry robe in the wardrobe and lay it on America's bed. Everything was so detached, like he watching his movements as a third person. He recognized everything but didn't belong here anymore. This was America's place. He left the room to where he knew the linen closet was (he had helped build this house, after all) and found the spare robe, the larger towels and some rags, then slid into a spare bedroom to undress, gently closed the wood door behind him.

He was taken aback by how different this room appeared from when he remembered it. The room had been rearranged and repainted. England didn't recognize the blankets and the candles were new, illuminated by the dim light from a dusty window. The sun was setting. England could hear America's shuffling in the hallway.

England wrapped himself in the white robe and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the weariness of the day sink in while he sank into America's mattress. He reminded himself just how old he was, and suddenly didn't want to do this anymore. Anything, ever. Maybe he could find a remote spot on his island and tell his bosses to bugger off, to leave him with his faeries and stories and not be an empire any longer. England smiled and lay back, eyes closing as he shifted into a shallow sleep, listening to America's restless activity.

When he woke the light was still dim but nearly gone. He strained to hear the heavy moments from before, tensing as he prepared to sit. His eyelids fluttered as they tempted him back to sleep, but there was no more time for that. He couldn't back out. He couldn't say no.

==  
America found himself wrapped in his robe, hunched on a stool as he stared at his tub. The porcelain claw foot tub England had given him a long time ago. It was larger than most because England could afford it at the time. Enough room to fit them, at least.

He couldn't think about this. Not this. His father, brother, mentor, and they were about to ...

"My, my, you're playing with the big kids now, aren't you?"

America's stare hardened at the smooth white sitting before him. 

"Pillaging a peoples, acquiring debts, establishing roots and now your own, new, empire. 

"I wonder what else you've learned from France and Prussia. You know," England leaned back, laced his fingers over his lap and regarded America in a way that made him feel as though he was being looked at like a specimen of bug. It made him squeamish. "The older nations have ways of," England paused and tilted his chin thoughtfully, "Well, we have habits at this point, with each other."

America felt his neck twitch, and clenched his hands on his lap, "Habits?"

"Yes. 'Habits'." England gave a misleadingly friendly smile, "I see Francis hasn't properly shown himself to you."

America took a deep breath and silently, valiantly kept himself in check. Of course he knew how France was. England was baiting him, and there was no way he would fall when England was being petulant...

"Then again I'm not surprised. Some are a little too young even for him."

Tea hadn't gone the way he had hoped.

England had propositioned him.

England had propositioned him.

England had propositioned him.

America was sure England had been bluffing but ... but. He couldn't let England mock him. He saw this game England was trying to play. America hadn't meant to draw it like this, this dance that America had accepted. America knew this whole ordeal was England being hurt and angry and they shouldn't have to do this. Not like this. But England had a very good poker face and, America didn't know how to break past it to find England's soft spots, to match his steps. England was more experienced in this, thing that was happening and America didn't know how to gracefully step out and so he didn't.

America jerked when he heard the bathroom door open. England padded in quietly then shut the door, holding a pile of towels and not quite looking at him. America suddenly felt very small hunched on his stool. He felt even smaller when England paused to look at him evenly, the space between them glass which England could walk through and shatter at any moment. The first step to their dance. Once they started they couldn't stop.

America couldn't run away, not anymore. He had accepted England's challenge.

They were silent as England lay the towels next to the basin America usually used to sponge himself in. He patted the towels flat and looked at America, stepped forward and America stood to face him. England reached for him, an arms length apart. There was a hesitation, an uncertain glint before England's fingers found America's neck and pulled him close, touched their lips, light and undemanding. America could hear England's close breath, could nearly hear his voice on the air which whispered, "Please don't make me do this," Neither acknowledged the unspoken plead. Neither spoke when England touched his shoulders as lightly as the kiss, fingered the loops on the robe before he trailed to the belt, pulled it away.

America let England push the shoulders of the robe down, felt England's hands pause at his elbows, helped by slipping his arms free. England looked up from America's chest and nodded toward the tub as he folded the cloth in his arms. America knew then England wouldn't look any lower than he had to. Modesty and decency. Hah.

The water still steamed as America stepped into the tub and hesitated to grip the porcelain sides, suddenly feeling exposed. He wanted to look over his shoulder to see if England was looking but thought better of it, settled himself in one side of the tub as quietly as possible. Even the sloshing water was too loud. When he found it in himself to look up, England was already neatly folding his own robe. When he lay it atop America's robe he settled his hands on the fabric and stalled. America looked up the line of England's pale back, studied what muscles he could see, saw the many faded scars and some fresh ones still pink and creeping into England's short choppy hair. America had seen him like this enough to not be surprised, but he wondered how much of a beating England had taken a decade ago. He dismissed the thought. He couldn't feel sorry for him now, not for an Empire.

England turned jerkily and made his way to the tub. His eyes would not meet America's, not that America would have allowed them because he turned his head to the wall. This was too strange.

He felt the water rise, their legs tangled as England stretched and heard the jarred breath leave England's lungs when he leaned back and America still couldn't face him --

"Turn around."

It was a normal speaking voice but made America cringe, but he looked up and England was wetting some cloths, was rubbing one with lye.

"What?"

England raised an eyebrow and looked at him evenly, and America had heard perfectly so, he stood and resettled with his back to England. He jumped when he felt the roughness of a cloth and stinging lye press on him, curled his legs when he realized England was washing him first and something tugged at America's chest. That was so ...

So fucking parental of England, wasn't it?

The rag pressed his neck, America obliged and bent his forehead to his knees, willed that slight tremble to end as England's hands calmly passed over him in a familiar way. Water trailed down his arms as the rag found his ears, his neck. America tensed when he felt England's free hand touch his hip under the water and urged him to scoot backwards which he did, hesitantly, and England's arms wrapped around him, England's chest against his back and England's forehead pressed his neck.

"Sit up." This time his voice was barely a hoarse whisper, but it echoed in America's ears and in the breath on his back.

America obliged again, closed his eyes when the rag touched his chest. He was too aware of the hand which pressed through the cloth, circling and dragging and America clenched his jaw when he noticed his jaw was shaking. He couldn't stop the tremors and only assumed England felt them too. He willed the flinch away when the rag passed over this nipples, an unfamiliar shock sent to his belly and he would have moved if there had been anywhere to go. England's hand shifted to his center and moved to his stomach. America sucked in air, frozen, and England paused. Both stilled as the silence waited to be broken but nothing was said.

England shifted closer, pressed lower, slower and finally America started to resign himself when the cloth grazed his hips to his thighs, the outsides first before dipping to the insides. America didn't think it possible but he tensed further, closed his eyes (When had he opened them?) when the rag ventured close, tickling and too light to even have the pretense of cleaning.

Then there was England's lack of movement, and America looked again, a hand resting high on his inside thigh and England's breath steady on his neck. America scowled: He wouldn't be scared out of this.

England sensed America relaxing and leaned back, pulled the rag from the water and twisted it dry.


	2. The Words Between Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: There’s a lot of head-canon going into this. Also, I’m abusing my weak knowledge of history, and if things get jumbled, I’m sorry. Notes:  
> 1\. France is not technically France right now. It is Gaul and a bunch of other things, but I justify Francis’ existence with that the Franks are a people, and the characters are nations.  
> 2\. I don’t think France/Gaul actually invades England for a while, but at any rate, the Angles were very resistant to the language of their invaders. I’m taking liberties.  
> 3\. Old English sounds like Danish/Nor  
> 4\. England is called a number of things right now. I’m almost certain the main peoples are the Angles in this time period, but I will call Arthur’s place of residence England for simplicity’s sake, like I’m not making much of a point with Gaul vs France.

**5.** [[This is a kink meme fill.](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18439.html?thread=64119559#t64119559)]  
[[Part 2](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18772.html?thread=73555540#t73555540)]  
  
  


**The Words Between Them**

  
  
** (  [Collapse](http://gasp-hallelujah.livejournal.com/8075.html#cutid2)  ) **

If there was one thing that Arthur had learnt, it was how to tell stories. He had a flare for the dramatic; gestures, expressions, voices. He would exaggerate the details so that his words could cause raucous laughter or make a grown man’s eyes tear.

Arthur’s favorite audience was always his men. Drunks were always up for a grand tale and Arthur was always willing to tell them. Simply, he made his men feel younger. Arthur looked old enough to fight but he was still baby-faced and his voice still cracked. Had he not proved himself in brawls with the best of his men he might not have such a willing audience.

Francis watched from beside a group of furry and drinking men as Arthur told a rousing tale of a priest and the young girl the priest tried to court. The scent of smoke and alcohol saturated the air, but the atmosphere was busy and energetic and the inn couldn’t have asked for a better night.

They were in an English inn. No one spoke to Francis (“Don’t mind him, he’s a Frank”), and Francis never bothered to try to blend with Arthur’s men because that always caused problems later. Francis, while older than Arthur, still appeared too womanish to mingle successfully with anyone’s armies. In the end, his manly honor always had to be defended in a brawl. Sometimes he was in the mood, tonight he was not.

And Arthur … but Arthur … Francis was used to the propositions of men, caused by misunderstanding or otherwise, but he didn’t know how Arthur had escaped certain attentions for so long. Arthur looked young and deceivingly weaker. Because of that stature, surely someone would have approached him. If anything a brightness and energy that radiated from him, if only while Arthur was telling his stories. Story-time was one of the few times when Arthur wasn’t scowling, and not-scowling did look attractive on him.

Francis’ eyes darkened. Rome had not been so kind enough as to ignore his own light (Arthur’s people had not been so lucky either). He could admit that there were the smallest sludges of jealousy that, despite the nature of being what they were, Arthur had been allowed to keep some of his innocence.

A wave of laughter reached Francis’ ears and he took that cue to break into the drunk circle surrounding Arthur to touch his arm. Arthur turned around, but then his bright green eyes scowled when he saw Francis’ smarmy face.

"Je veux te parler." Francis said as softly as he could.

The circle grew tense. They had taken Francis’ chosen language as an insult. They had never quite got over that invasion thing, and Francis resented that they sometimes made a point to sound like he was speaking with Denmark.

Arthur pursed his lips, “Qu'est-ce que tu veux?” he hissed back.

"Te. Parler." Francis tugged on Arthur’s sleeve, colored green and brown like always.

Arthur sniffed and stood, much to the disappointment of the listeners around him, “I’m sorry, it seems my friend feels obligated to interrupt us.”

A few of the bushy men grumbled, others glared, and a few gave Francis looks that told him to lock his door tonight. Francis smiled and bowed, suddenly glad that he had worn something that resembled Arthur’s drab tunics because for once Francis didn’t think he could stand being any more visible than he already appeared.

Arthur looked at Francis expectantly as they moved through the crowd to where they were lodged. Francis bent to Arthur’s ear, “To your room.” he said, and enjoyed the way Arthur flustered and rubbed at the side of his face like he had an itch.

Arthur would feel more comfortable in his own environment.

Arthur had one of the larger rooms, despite his protests. The only real difference was that the bed was softer, he had his own bath that was little more than a bucket--not that this was unusual--and there was more room for Arthur to lay his weapons. Francis smiled when he saw Arthur’s bow sitting in the corner and scraps of wood on the floor from where he had been making arrows.

Arthur turned around and faced-off with Francis as soon as the door was shut.

“What is it?” Arthur asked irately. Francis blew his bangs out and, for the first time really thought about how to approach him. Words alluded him now that Arthur was standing there, listening. Somehow foreseeing how events would follow was different than actually making them happen. His time would run short if he didn’t speak quickly because Arthur was short in every sense of the word.

“I ah, have been thinking, about you.” Francis started uncertainly, and didn’t appreciate the way Arthur snorted and crossed his arms. His discomfort suddenly came in a different form; he was trying to be civil. Civility was not usually a consideration in any of their discussions, and to enter a conversation on the defensive made conversing difficult.

“If something has you shut up like this, it must be important.” Arthur quipped, barely hiding his worry behind sharp words. He steeled himself for verbal blows.

Francis knew Arthur was soft. He would rail and be upset, but he couldn’t help but listen. Francis took a breath and spilled his thoughts, “Iwanttohavesexwithyou.” There they were, words that couldn’t be retrieved, and had set off the beginning of events Francis hoped would end successfully.

Arthur stared at Francis as though he had grown a third head, “...what?”

Francis covered his face, “Please, it is embarrassing enough without asking again.”

Arthur’s voice cracked, “Between your accent and terrible grasp on languages I hoped I...” His thoughts were getting lost and becoming dull. Arthur was thoroughly unprepared for this strange situation.

“No, you did not.” Francis said stiffly, and dared to hope because there was no yelling. Arthur was not angry. Yet.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Arthur’s face turned red. He started to back away, and in that moment he looked like a teenager placed in a situation he didn’t know how to handle.

Defensiveness was not something Francis could afford to let happen. Verbal battle was a kind of familiarity, but it was unproductive to his cause. He lowered his voice as though he was coaxing a rabbit close, but he didn’t try to get near Arthur. “No, I am not, Angleterre,” he said quietly, and, meeting Arthur’s eyes, shoved away the bit of hurt stemming from Arthur’s confusion. Arthur didn’t trust him. Francis scanned the room and considered a way to make their vicinity feel less suppressing. He moved to the bed and sat at the end; at least the door wasn’t blocked anymore.

“I was thinking,” Francis started carefully, and sure enough Arthur tensed but didn’t run. “You have been very fortunate not to have too many unwanted advances.” Arthur appeared to take Francis’ words the wrong way. Francis continued before Arthur could latch on to his word choice and start fighting, “Despite your certain features, someone else may think you’re a little cute,” he said, “and I am always saddened when I hear that anyone’s first time is considered an invasion, rather than a sharing of pleasure, like it should be.”

Arthur took a moment to absorb Francis’ thoughts, and translate them into his then own form an opinion. A decision needed to be made because for once Francis was being serious, and of all things a proposition. Finally his mind came to a quick conclusion. That wasn’t really his fault, but it was his initial reaction.

Arthur was embarrassed. Horribly, terribly embarrassed, especially by Francis’ backhanded compliments, and he was not used to feelings. Sharing fake feelings and spinning how fake people act was very different from sharing emotions that were part of himself. His stories filtered his feelings in a world where he had to pretend he didn’t care what people said to him (their own stories, that was what story-telling was about - perception. Francis was telling him a perception that wasn’t incorrect because there’s always a little truth in a tall-tale) and that was the problem: He was happy Francis wasn’t being hateful.

After a couple-of-hundred years of breaking each other’s noses (because of feelings), to hear something kind and new from the person he (probably) also cared about made his heart clench. If Arthur were to be completely honest, he was a little emotional in the first place.

Arthur started crying.

He sat where he had been standing and continued to cry. He wasn’t sobbing, rather he just let out little sniffles and he appeared stunned. He didn’t screw up his face like wrinkled paper, but when he cried the tears were big and his cheeks turned red.

Arthur crying was something Francis was familiar with so he wasn’t completely surprised, but it wasn’t the reaction he’d been wanting. He jumped off the bed to kneel on the floor, worried that he had just caused an emotional breakdown.

The words poured out of him as guilt replaced worry,“Arthur! I am sorry! I overwhel--”

As soon as Francis put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur jerked upright and punched Francis in the jaw.

“Asshole!” Arthur yelled.

Francis sprawled on the floor, clutching his face in shock. Arthur rubbed at his eyes as he tried to control himself, and Francis kept quiet because saying anything would appear as if he was making fun of Arthur. “I’m not happy or anything,” he glared. His anger was completely unconvincing, especially when placed between gasping sniffles.

Self-preservation wasn’t something Francis was always talented with, and he couldn’t help but smile, “You are happy that I would ask--”

Arthur flung a leg out, fully intending to kick the other in the face, but his target just scooted away. They sat without speaking while Arthur collected himself, and Francis patiently waited for an answer. Even after the sniffling had finished Arthur was only staring at nothing, but he was obviously thinking.

When Arthur spoke his voice was rough and nervous, and he said his words deliberately. He refused to look Francis in the eye, “I guess,” he mumbled, and Francis perked to attention because he knew Arthur would not repeat himself, “if it makes you feel better about whatever horrible things could happen, I wouldn’t mind.” Arthur hugged his knees closer and looked like he was ready to run again.

Francis glowed, and crawled closer to sit himself next to the hunched boulder that was Arthur shying away, “I guess then,” Francis leaned to Arthur’s ear, smiling at the spasm Arthur gave at his proximity, but he didn’t move away, “We will start with the bathroom.”

 **-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

  
“Oh please, Arthur, come out.”

Arthur was currently wrapped in his blankets and refused to emerge, no matter how Francis pulled at him.

“I do not know why you are so embarrassed, I am certainly not judging you.”

The disembodied voice coming from the blankets was muffled and unhappy, “Of course not, you asked me to do it.”

Francis huffed and crossed his arms across his bare chest, dressed in only a towel, “Do not make me the bad guy for wanting my partner clean.”

There was some shuffling from inside the blanket and fingers peeked out from the folds. Francis raised an eyebrow when two eyes scowled at him. “That was possibly the most embarrassing moment of my life,” Arthur’s slightly louder voice said to him.

Francis darted forward and took advantage of the window Arthur had made. The struggle was grand, but eventually Francis wrestled the blankets down to expose Arthur’s chest, but his arms were still caught. Francis straddled him. Arthur tried to look away, but Francis grabbed his chin and forced him to look. Arthur adverted his eyes just to be spiteful.

“We are not fighting tonight.” Francis said.

Arthur flushed but looked up, scowling. Francis braced himself when Arthur swelled for the yell that would hit Francis’ ears, “I’ll fight you whenever I damn well please!” Francis only laughed when Arthur started wiggling violently. There was a moment of shuffling before Francis decided Arthur had his chance to outright change his mind or successfully run away. He shoved Arthur’s shoulders down and flopped on him bodily, paying no mind to the towel slipping off his hips or that Arthur looked over Francis’ shoulder to notice.

“We are not fighting.” Francis repeated, and debated taking a different approach.

Arthur reluctantly stopped struggling and settled for pouting and staring at the ceiling.

Francis’ laughter was stifled for the sake of leaving with as few bruises as possible; Arthur was being very not-cute right now, but he had to take advantage of this moment or a hard-won opportunity would be lost. “It is hard not to watch you, sometimes, Arthur,” he said gently, placing the vibrations of someone who wanted to say something into the air between them. Arthur pretended not to listen.

“You have a way of speaking to people, of using your body as well as your voice to tell your silly stories.” Francis smiled at the flush reaching his partner’s cheeks. He shifted to lay himself across Arthur’s chest comfortably, talking, speaking, in soft puffs the way he used to lull Arthur to sleep, “That is why I think this could be good, because you are so expressive.”

Arthur cleared his throat and chewed his lip. “You are full of shit,” he mumbled.

Francis smirked and replied without hate, “At least you are not.”

The armor they usually wore around each other finally seemed to be sliding off. Francis sat up and pressed a hand to Arthur’s chest, sensed the instinctive need to recoil, “Have you ever kissed someone, Arthur?” he asked, keeping his voice free of judgement and disparagement.

Arthur became defensive anyway. “Y-yes,” he said loudly.

Francis looked at him doubtfully.

“W-well, I have...”

Francis brushed off what was the beginning of a ramble and kissed Arthur’s cheek. Arthur shushed immediately at the bloom of warmth against his skin, and watched Francis with some befuddlement as the other cheek was kissed, then his forehead.

Feeling childish for all his struggling, Arthur spluttered, “What are you...” His words were cut when Francis pressed their lips together.

Whatever Arthur was expecting from Francis it wasn’t gentleness, or the feathery way Francis’ lips opened to make them share breath and warmth. Their mouths were soft against each other, and Arthur let himself feel the way he could feel Francis moving despite the blanket. Their faces nuzzled together comfortably, sometimes bumping noses, sometimes catching the hitch in the other’s breath, the slight wetness between their mouths. Francis made their mouths move slowly against each other, almost petting the other’s lips with his mouth. Arthur was perfectly contented to kiss like this until Francis raised himself and looked at the subtle flush reaching Arthur’s ears. The flush finally wasn’t from embarrassment.

“I will show you something else,” Francis murmured softly enough that Arthur could choose not to have heard. Touching Arthur’s cheek, he let him tense at the contact before dipping his head to claim the other’s mouth again.

This time Arthur hesitated when a tongue touched his lower lip, and he shivered when Francis’ thumb encouraged his lips to part. Francis wrinkled his nose when Arthur didn’t consent, and wet Arthur’s lip again before carefully pulling the soft flesh with his teeth.

Arthur made a surprised noise as the nerves in his cheeks were suddenly tingling. He couldn’t help but press up and open himself to Francis’ gentle tugging. He moaned quietly when Francis used the moment and shallowly slipped their tongues together. Hands were suddenly on either side of Arthur’s face and Francis rhythmically, wetly, pet the underside of his tongue with his own. He pressed their lips together, pulled apart, licked and pressed, licked and pressed until Arthur was conscientiously moving his tongue against Francis’ with hesitant experimentation. He realized that movement meant pleasure, and friction meant heat different from any kind he had experienced. Francis pulled away to nip at Arthur’s lip, encouraged him to try the same, and ran his hands against Arthur’s shoulders only to move back to move his bangs. Arthur wiggled his arms from his blanket-cocoon in an effort to touch back.

When Francis felt a hand slip into his hair he stopped and pulled away, smiling with his victory. Arthur looked at him, flushed and breathing shallowly.

“Was that alright?” Francis asked. When Arthur nodded dazedly Francis rewarded him with another brush of lips against lips. He barely hid his pleasure when Arthur started to lift his head to follow when he made them part. Arthur wanted more of the unexpected heat from those kisses, the slick movement that for some reason was anything but unpleasant. His curiosity overrode disappointment when Francis shimmied lower, then kissed the underside of his jaw. When Francis’ mouth touched his neck he shivered, skin prickled with the sensation of nearly being tickled but instead alerted Arthur that the vulnerable parts of his body were sensitive.

A hiss escaped Arthur’s tongue when Francis latched onto his neck and licked the part right underneath his ear, lighting nerves that seemed to have a pathway to his loins. Blood flooded to his face and before he could stop himself Arthur gasped and arched. Heat rushed to his belly and his skin buzzed and hips needed to move. He felt Francis’ lips curve against his neck, then there was the sensation of all his nerves being pulled into one place and being lit with liquid fire. Whatever glorious thing Francis was doing with his mouth made all the breath leave his lungs in something that wasn’t quite a gasp. Pleasure assaulted him that was sharp, uncontrollable, and nearly made him convulse with the acuteness of the feeling. Arthur grabbed Francis’ hair to stop the intensity.

Francis didn’t mind. He smirked before he pulled Arthur’s hand from his hair, then bent to kiss Arthur again. Arthur opened his mouth immediately, and Francis paused to see if Arthur would take the lead. When he didn’t Francis kissed him as thoroughly as before.

Francis lifted his hips then sat down. He felt Arthur’s length pressing through the blanket and Francis ground his hips against the other to make sure. “I can feel you,” Francis purred against Arthur’s lips, delighted despite the fact that Arthur managed to look ravished and embarrassed simultaneously.

“T-that’s your fault...” Arthur muttered, fidgeted and tried to back away. Francis didn’t give him the chance by pressing their lips together and skimming his hands down Arthur’s sides. Arthur squirmed, Francis smiled and took advantage of ticklish spots for a moment before Arthur shoved him away.

Francis grinned and sat up, rolled his hips against Arthur’s and enjoyed the way the other flushed and tried to look without looking. Cute. Francis reached and grabbed Arthur’s hands, which were lying uselessly by his sides. Arthur startled and looked between them, flexing his fingers and freezing when Francis lay his hands over Arthur’s and pressed them to his body. Arthur looked up, more than a little unsure and disconcerted with their fingers tangled together and that almost seemed more intimate than Francis straddling him naked. Francis deigned to tease him and guided their fingers over his own chest and belly. He smiled when Arthur took the hint and the petting turned into rubbing of his own volition, and Francis sighed contentedly, closed his eyes, let his head float to where he could only feel and hear skin against skin.

Arthur chewed his lip when he saw Francis wasn’t looking, and explored. His eyes skimmed up the torso of the older man on top of him, taller but paler and slimmer. Blankets were still bunched between them and for the first time he noticed Francis’ hair was tied. Francis’ breath came in shallow little puffs, and Arthur suddenly wanted to see him breathing heavier, because of him.

He checked that Francis still wasn’t looking and lightly brushed a nipple with his thumb. Francis’ mouth quirked and he peeked, caught Arthur’s hand when Arthur tried to retreat, thinking he had done something wrong.

“That’s good,” Francis said and pressed Arthur’s hand against his chest. Arthur pressed the nipple again and Francis sighed and closed his eyes. Taking that reaction as a good sign, Arthur rubbed at the other, pressed a little harder, quietly thrilled at the soft noise Francis offered him.

Francis looked down when he felt Arthur adjust to sit up, Francis leaned back with the change in position, determined to keep himself on top, but felt a flash of pride when Arthur dipped his head forward and caught a nipple in his mouth; he was touching back for real, excellent.

Francis’ cock twitched with the warm-wet sensation flaring from his chest, heat pooling to his stomach and nerves being pulled at Arthur’s tentative lapping. Francis pressed back into the hand on his back and gently lay a hand on Arthur’s neck to bring him close enough to say, “Use your teeth,”

Arthur glanced up, curious, but he pulled the nipple gently, not unlike how Francis had pulled at his lip earlier. Francis moaned and arched, leaned his head back and held on to Arthur’s shoulders, absorbed in feeling when Arthur figured out to pull then lick, to rub his tongue and use his lips, guided by Francis’ murmurs of, “Yes, like that, no, too hard,” until Francis finally tugged Arthur away and grinned brightly, “Enough of that.” he said breathlessly.

Arthur smiled sheepishly, “I didn’t expect that to work,” he admitted. Francis nearly rewarded Arthur for being cute, until Arthur smirked and added, “...like a woman’s.”

Francis’ face fell. Arthur snickered.

Francis reached for both of Arthur’s nipples and twisted.

Arthur yelped and didn’t so much try to punch Francis, as make a failed attempt to flail at him.

“OW that hurts!” Arthur wailed and covered his chest.

Francis dived forward to wrestle Arthur’s arms away. Arthur flailed again and nearly pushed Francis off of him but Francis retaliated by rolling them over and out of the bed, leaving Arthur sprawled and defenseless and nipples very exposed to the fingers of an angry Frenchman. Arthur cried out when Francis twisted harder than the first time. Even more to Arthur’s chagrin, Francis jumped up and moved back to the bed, still fuming and out of reach for an attack. Arthur sat up and glared.

“Don’t try me!” Francis growled at him, “I can cause you a world of pain, fils de pute.”

Arthur rubbed his chest, “Same to you,” he spat back, but didn’t move, and watched as Francis took a deep, calming breath.

Francis pointed to the bed, “Little brat, get back on the bed. I am not finished with you yet,”

Arthur’s glared at him suspiciously, “You’re going to attack me again.”

Francis closed his eyes, released a breath through his nose then crossed himself, “Only if you call me a woman again. Now get on the bed,”

Arthur stood, but paused and smirked, “So, if I call you a pig, you won’t attack me?”

Francis snarled, “If you call me anything but my name I will do a great many things to you that you will not like and _will_ involve your private areas. Lay down.”

Arthur sat down cautiously, eyeing Francis warily until Francis shoved him down and straddled him like before. The difference this time was the blanket was on the floor, and Arthur froze when Francis’ nether regions touched his hips.

Francis scowled down at him, “Get over it,” he groused, before grabbing Arthur’s face and kissing him roughly, “You,” he hissed between kisses, and Arthur was surprised they were even trying again, “are the most,” kiss, “infuriating,” kiss, “person,” kiss, “I will ever,” kiss, “know,”, then Francis dipped his tongue between their lips and Arthur opened willingly.

Fingers were on his chest and Arthur had a moment of recognition before his still-sore nipples were pulled a little more roughly than he would have liked. A curse flew between their mouths, Arthur tried to sit, but Francis smirked and shouldered him down, pulled again, this time pinched and rubbed. Arthur tried to ignore the sparks send down his back in favour of being appalled, but Francis distracted him by licking one nipple then moved to catch the other between his teeth.

Arthur’s body twisted in surprised sensation when fingers rubbed at the nipple not covered by Francis’ warm wet mouth, the arousal he had previously lost twitching in interest. He shifted restlessly, a little disconcerted by Francis’ mouth on his chest (Like a woman’s, damn frog) but Francis worked his own teeth and lips and tongue and Arthur found himself arching, gasping and fighting the little noises that wanted to leave his throat.

Arthur covered his face when a small but very audible, “Hmm-nah” escaped in place of a moan. Francis paused and Arthur retreated behind the shield of his arm, felt the smile against his chest and the probable smugness he let himself imagine, and braced himself for mocking. Francis kept quiet and moved lower, lips pillowing against the underneath of Arthur’s breast. The gesture made Arthur squirm with how affectionate it was, his face red with embarrassment.

Arthur would later deny that he squeaked when Francis slipped his hands underneath his hips and squeezed his ass. Blood rushed to his face as well as his groin, “D-don’t do that!” He stuttered, and praised himself when he didn’t find a way to wipe the smirk off Francis’ face, who flexed his fingers to elicit a flustered gasp and to watch the way Arthur reflexively arched his hips to move out of his grip. Francis adjusted to sit between Arthur’s legs, who instinctively spread them to make room for their new occupant. Arthur belatedly realized what was happening when Francis pressed a cheek against the protruding hip, breathed lightly on Arthur’s cock, hands still holding his ass to keep Arthur from physically shying away, but the younger still couldn’t bring himself to look at the one handling his vitals. Arthur hid behind his arm.

Francis waited for Arthur’s breathing to calm before nuzzling Arthur’s hip, watched as the chest above him hitched. He frowned when Arthur’s fist clenched, the body beneath him too tense.

Fingers curled around Arthur’s arm when Francis reached to pull the offending limb away. Their eyes met, and Arthur tried to scowl, unsuccessfully, eyes fervid and green and vivid with the confused emotions he was terrible at concealing.

Francis kissed Arthur’s fingers and looked at him, “Do not hide from me,” he coaxed gently, and Arthur’s lips twisted and he retracted his hand, but didn’t cover his face.

Arthur propped himself on his elbows and watched as Francis settled himself again, tensed when thumbs brushed over his hips and lips followed the trails of heat. He looked away, and hated that his voice came out so small, “Isn’t that humiliating?” he muttered.

Francis blinked up in surprise despite himself, and Arthur suddenly realized how blue Francis’ eyes really were. They shone when Francis offered him what was probably the first smile of the night that wasn’t littered with bemusement or self-victory, “Oh,” Francis said through his smile, “If this was the most humiliating thing I had ever done I would have been very lucky.”

Arthur watched the head of his cock disappear in Francis’ mouth. He hazily thought the sensation was similar to his finger in his mouth until Arthur realized that while he was half-hard Francis’ tongue could slip underneath his foreskin. He shuddered and spread his legs, ears filling with white noise as his world became focused on warmth and heat and wet and that he he could feel himself in Francis’ throat.

Eyes closed, Francis absorbed Arthur’s scent and the smooth-hot flesh in his mouth. Arthur’s cock swelled and lengthened. While this wasn’t Francis’ favorite activity, the noises coming from Arthur made him want to hear more sounds and abuse his own mouth to taste more of their sex and feel more tremors and more more more.

He glanced up to see Arthur didn’t seem to know what to do with this new pressure, slickness, moving heat. Arthur pressed his hips up sharper than he probably knew, making Francis grab his hips to steady both of them. Francis eased Arthur’s cock further into his throat, working his tongue and teeth to elicit moans and panting. Arthur blinked down owlishly and watched, unable and not entirely wanting to look away from part of himself disappearing into Francis’ mouth.

Quickly Arthur felt a familiar heat rush from his belly to his toes and fingertips and he gasped, hissing, before orgasm overwhelmed him and tiny tremors wracked him and for a moment he wasn’t aware of how he looked or sounded when he panted and thrust his cum into Francis’ mouth.

Francis jerked with surprise when he felt the first shot but relaxed himself to accept the not entirely disgusting bitterness; pulling away would just make more of a mess. When no more was forthcoming and he no longer felt the small twitches and pulses, he pulled back from the still half-hard cock. He licked his lips of moisture and snickered at the brightness in Arthur’s eyes. Arthur attempted to scowl but failed while still high and shaking from orgasm.

“A warning next time,” Francis chastised gently from behind his wrist, and when Arthur bristled Francis stopped him with a light kiss.

Arthur realized this was Francis’ new way of keeping him quiet and was more than a little miffed that the technique was working … he fell more stiffly than before into their kiss, opting to grab Francis’ arms to pull him closer and deepened what Francis had meant as chaste, intrigued that he couldn’t quite taste himself on Francis, but could _smell_ his sex. He shivered and ignored that Francis was acting quite smug.

When they separated Arthur glanced between them and some embarrassment crossed his face. Francis sat a bit, never one to neglect putting himself on display to Arthur’s annoyance. Arthur rubbed his nose and looked away, “You’re not...”

Francis smiled dryly and absently stroked his own belly, “Lesson one, sometimes we do things we might not necessarily like to please our partner.”

Arthur settled for looking grumpy, “I told you...”

Francis shook his head, and started to coax Arthur to lay back again. Arthur hesitantly eased back to his elbows, still not accustomed to being moved around. Francis asked, “You will do something for me now that I only hope you like later.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I'll finish this ever. Initially posted in 2009.


End file.
